The Adviser
Text copyright © Sydney Presley 2017
Cover Art by Emmy Ellis © 2017
Images from Pixabay
All Rights Reserved
The Adviser is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and events are from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
The author respectfully recognises the use of all trademarks.
With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from Sydney Presley.
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The Adviser
SYDNEY PRESLEY
Prologue
Seventeen Years Ago
“You’ll always be my friend, won’t you?” Edwin asked. He scrubbed at a patch of dirt on the underside of his wrist, from where they’d been messing about in the woods earlier. He had twigs and all sorts in his afro, and his mum would threaten him again with clipping the lot off if he wasn’t careful.
Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing in this heat.
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” Stuart’s blond hair wafted in the slight breeze, and he toed some stones on the gravel path outside the main pack house. The dust from them coated the blue leather tip of his trainer.
It was a hot summer, and Edwin had never known a hotter one in all his eight years. Not that he could remember the earliest ones, but still…
“It’s just that some people fall out, don’t they?” Edwin said.
“But we won’t. Not ever.” Stuart shoved his hand into one pocket of his shorts then brought it back out. He flattened his palm, and three marbles rolled around. “Want to play?”
“I didn’t bring mine with me.” Edwin wanted to kick his silly self. He’d thought about bringing his marbles, but then his mum had called him as he was leaving the cottage, saying she wanted to coat him in sun cream, and that had been the end of that.
“Want to share mine? I have more in my other pocket,” Stuart said. His nose was turning red from sunburn, same as his arms.
Edwin smiled. Stuart was always sharing things with him. His sweets, his crisps, and even his one can of pop his mother allowed him to have each week.
“I’m glad I’ve got you,” Edwin said, bumping hips with his best friend. “Cos if I didn’t, I don’t know what I’d do.”
“Same.” Stuart brought the other marbles out and handed them over. “We’d be lost without each other, so my mum says.”
“My mum says the same thing.” And Edwin knew the women were right. Somewhere deep inside him, he was aware that he needed Stuart more than any other wolf or human on the planet. He got scared sometimes, if he thought about them not being friends. That’s why he had to ask every so often if Stuart would always be there. “Would you still be my friend if I did something bad, then?”
“Yeah. Because you wouldn’t mean to be bad.” Stuart squinted at the sun. “Come on, let’s play marbles.”
They hunkered down, grit biting into Edwin’s knees. It didn’t matter. Marbles was Edwin’s favourite game, and he’d let grit bite him all over if it meant they played it together all the time. Stuart preferred football, but he played marbles instead anyway.
“So we’re best friends, right?” Edwin pressed.
“Yeah. Forever.” Stuart stared at him, his face solemn. “Doesn’t matter what.”
“I hope so.” Edwin smiled. “I promise not to do anything that makes you not want to be my friend.”
“I promise, too.”
“You swear?” Edwin said.
“I swear.”
Chapter One
The day the pack cockatiel had bitten the Alpha, Edwin Mathers became a gangster’s adviser. Not that he’d known anything about his new boss being a gangster of sorts at the time, mind. It wasn’t every day such a good, high-paying job offer came along in the busy town of Kortley, and Edwin hadn’t been about to look a gift horse in the mouth. He’d been after solid employment for ages, and to be working for John Farrow, the local golden man, well, Edwin was good with it.
Or he had been, until bodies had started ‘showing up’ and he was expected to tell Farrow what to do about them. Tell Farrow, as in, tell Farrow what to do with the bodies that Farrow had ordered dead? How could this man have anything to do with them? Those had been Edwin’s first thoughts, but now he knew better. Farrow was a gang leader behind his carefully constructed façade, and Edwin was stuck with him.
The latest victim was in the barn down on Plague’s Road and his boss had just said he expected Edwin to get rid of it. Fuck that for a game of soldiers. Going a bit too far, that was. All he’d done when taking on the role had been his job description—advising the boss. Now that things had changed, Edwin reckoned he’d best be getting off the gangster’s radar for a bit. Hunker down, keep his face hidden.
Stupid if I think it’ll work like that. Like I can just walk away, knowing what I do about him.
Shit. Who the fuck worked for a gangster and expected it to be plain sailing anyway? It wasn’t as though he even had a contract, one he could spout pertinent lines from to get him out of doing certain things. Still, he’d give it a good try. Getting out of doing something, that was.
“Can I just say…” Standing in front of Farrow’s desk was daunting in itself. The bloke was built like a brick shit house with a voice that belonged in some hard-man movie directed by that fella who used to be married to Madonna. Guy someone or other.
Farrow frowned. It made him look right menacing, along with his shiny bald head and bright blue eyes. Oh, and those thin lips that stretched into a big smile if he was trying to win the townsfolk over into doing something he wanted.
Edwin’s arsehole contracted in fear. If only he hadn’t been chasing the money, wanting a job that paid over the odds. He should have taken the position he’d been offered as the assistant manager of the local Aldi—steady income, honest graft, nothing to be ashamed of. But no, he’d agreed to help Farrow ‘for a little while’—except ‘a little while’ had turned into eight months with no end in sight.
Bollocks.
Yeah, bollocks, because Farrow’s frown became more knitted, his eyes more hooded.
“What’s that?” Farrow asked, reaching for a hefty dose of gin, one he’d poured not five minutes since. He downed it in one.
“I don’t want to be moving any dead bodies.” Edwin shrugged, more out of feeling uncomfortable under Farrow’s stare than anything. “I advise—and that’s all I do.”
“Is it now.” Farrow sloshed another load of gin into his glass. Crystal. Probably cost an arm and a leg. “I rather thought you needed a change. Must be bored rabbiting on to me about what my next move should be. Granted, your advice is usually always spot on, but sitting around here waiting for me to ask you for your words of wisdom must be getting on your tits by now. Isn’t it?”
“Nope.” All right, if he were honest, it was getting on his tits, and he’d had a few chats with himself lately about what he was meant to do in between the times he sat in this office and spoke to Farrow. The latest magazines on offer—the ones that sat in a pile on the table out in the reception area—were boring now he’d read them five or more times over. Wasn’t much he didn’t know about valeting a car or the best way to get a red wine stain out of a white shirt, not to mention how to build your own house from the foundations up. Okay, he had an app on his phone containing hundreds of books, but there was only so much reading he could stomach before his
eyes crossed.
“So you’re happy to sit out there, at my beck and call, and just wait until I ask you to come in here for a natter?” Farrow raised his eyebrows. They were blond, and many a time Edwin had tried to envisage the man with corn-coloured hair on his head. He’d failed every time.
“Yeah, that’s about the sum of it.” Edwin resisted shuffling from foot to foot. He didn’t want to give Farrow the impression he was scared of him. Or uneasy. So far, he’d maintained the exterior air of a man who didn’t get messed with. He wanted it to stay that way.
Farrow laughed—the bastard sodding well laughed. Edwin didn’t grit his teeth, didn’t clench his hands into fists, and he didn’t bark out the question that floated into his head: What the fuck is so funny? Instead, he remained passive, just as Farrow would expect. No way was the gangster ever going to know that Edwin feared him.
“Right.” Farrow tossed the gin down his throat. Stood. Straightened his dark-grey suit jacket then did up the shiny silver buttons. “Fair enough. Then you can come with me while I move it—and give me advice on the matter.”
Shit.
Edwin swallowed. He’d be an accessory.
I don’t want this crap. Don’t need it.
“Cat got your tongue?” Farrow asked as he stalked from behind his desk towards the office door.
Edwin shook his head. “No. It’s all good.” It wasn’t, but walking away…not an option at the moment. He needed time to think. Jesus, it wasn’t like he didn’t know this kind of thing went on. He’d advised Farrow about it often enough. But advising while in the office, and actually seeing one of the dead people in situ who had got in Farrow’s way, was a different matter.
He followed Farrow from the room, through into reception. Margaret, the old bird who answered the phones and kept Farrow’s legitimate businesses in order, sat and waved, and he wondered whether she’d been counting down the last half hour before she could leave her desk and go home.
Out in the car park, Edwin scoped the area. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, and he hunched his shoulders to ward off the shiver from a cold wisp of breeze that snuck between his neck and shirt collar. The nights were drawing in earlier now, what with summer scooting its arse and letting autumn take its place. A few fallen leaves from the conker tree in the far corner skittered across the asphalt. Their brittle tinkle had an ominous sound to it, and Edwin shook off any foreboding thoughts.
The gangster slotted his beefy body behind the wheel of his nifty black sports car, then reached across and opened the passenger door. The interior light popped on, casting Farrow in a sepia glow. Edwin walked over then got in. Buckled up. Stared out of the windscreen at the waist-high hedge that bordered the car park. Decided that if push came to shove, and things got a bit hairy, he’d shift his arse out of the location and be done with it.
All of it.
Including Stuart? Can I be done with him?
No, he’d never be done with Stuart, the man he’d set his mating sights on since they’d been cubs. They were at the stage of hanging out a lot together, alone, doing that bloody God-awful dance people did when they fancied each other but hadn’t admitted it yet. Edwin had told himself to move slowly, let Stuart take the lead, but so far, Stuart didn’t seem to want to go any faster than the occasional drink or meal together. They loved each other, no question—growing up in a pack side by side would do that—but as for the other kind of love… Edwin was in love with Stuart, but it remained to be seen if the feelings were mutual.
Farrow revved the engine, startling Edwin, and then they were off. Edwin went into work mode and kept a close eye on the roads, watching out for anything untoward. Like Farrow’s worker bees, as the boss called them, slacking off on the corner of the main street that ran through town. They’d most probably tuned their ears into recognising the distinct sound of Farrow’s car, because every single one of them stood upright beneath the amber streetlamps, on the lookout for potential customers.
In a hopping place like Kortley, people always wanted drugs or cheap booze, or to borrow a bit of cash until the next payday.
Farrow steered the car out of town and into the countryside. Edwin had an uneasy feeling about their destination. Usually, dead bodies were disposed of from a crackhead’s bedroom or in places like the back alley of some pub or other. In all the time he’d been working for Farrow, he’d never heard of one out in the sticks before.
“So, do you want to give me the information so I can advise?” Edwin asked.
Might as well act like I normally would while I figure out what the fuck I’m going to do about this job.
“Not until we get there,” Farrow said. “I’m thinking, so shush.”
That was more than okay with Edwin. He had a fair bit of thinking to do himself, didn’t he, but he was buggered if the thoughts would come. There was no solution to his problem forthcoming. No get-out clause he could cling to because his mind wasn’t providing any. If he told Farrow he wanted to leave his position—because, after all, he’d only been employed for a short while (What a fucking laugh…)—he knew what was in store for him: a final resting place in his own bedroom or propped against the side of that big dumpster behind The Mighty Stag. Or maybe in the river with cement blocks for shoes.
You knew the score when you continued working for him once his real ‘business’ came to light. Why didn’t you leave back then, eh?
Yeah, he’d known the score. Didn’t mean he had to like it, though, did it? And besides, by the time he’d discovered what was really going on behind the scenes, it was too late. Once a person knew about nefarious activities, it was difficult to get the boss of such an organisation to let you walk free.
In no time, Farrow swerved off the road and onto a track, heading towards a dilapidated barn that looked like it had once been used to store huge bales of hay. Edwin swallowed again, conscious that his saliva had made a noise, and he gave Farrow a sideways glance to check whether he’d noticed. Didn’t seem he had.
“This fella in here,” Farrow said, pointing to the barn, “got on my last nerve.”
Edwin wasn’t sure what kind of response to give so kept his mouth shut.
“He owed me money and didn’t seem inclined to pay up,” Farrow went on. “I did as you said. Asked him politely, face to face, then sent him several letters to warn him he was well overdue in giving me my cash—and he ignored every one of them. Seems people don’t want to pay for services rendered or goods they’ve purchased from me these days. Legitimate services and goods at that.”
Edwin knew then which person had lost their life. It was Mr Lyons, that old geezer who’d bought a load of shingle off Farrow a while back. One of Farrow’s businesses was a builder’s merchant type effort, where you could also, if you were in the know, get a few quid’s worth of crack along with your planks of wood and shiny claw hammers. Mr Lyons was a nice bloke, he’d just fallen on hard times a tad, that was all. He’d owed Farrow a grand and had promised, after Farrow had sent letter number three, that he’d pay up within the month.
Obviously he hadn’t.
Edwin chewed the inside of his cheek. There was a problem here. Mr Lyons had ties with Edwin’s pack, was an old friend of the Beta or something—not that Farrow knew anything about there even being a pack. And wasn’t that something? Farrow not knowing about the shifters who lived nearby—and that Edwin was one of them?
“Was it quick?” Edwin blurted.
“What, his death?” Farrow parked behind the barn then cut the engine. “No idea. I just sent Gunner out to get him with instructions to give Lyons a good hiding. Gunner got a bit too into it and, well, you can imagine the rest.”
“So why did you ask me to get rid of the body?” Edwin asked, his frown hurting his forehead. “Gunner usually does that sort of thing.”
“Because, like I said, I thought you could do with something different going on in your work day. A promotion, earn some extra money.” Farrow got out of the car. He slammed the door and pocketed
the keys.
Edwin closed his eyes momentarily. Once he got out of this car, his world would be a completely different place. He’d have taken a step too far. Fibres off his clothes could end up being found as evidence. Fingers could point at him as being someone of interest in a murder case.
Providing it’s ever discovered there’s been a murder. Hasn’t happened here before. But that’s because all those who’d been killed were druggies and the police took it that they’d just been beaten up and left for dead. Mr Lyons is an old man, for Christ’s sake. How will his death or disappearance be explained?
He opened his eyes to find Farrow staring at him through the soundproof glass in the passenger door that he’d had installed. Farrow spoke, and from the movement of his lips, Edwin thought he’d said, “Come on, you lazy fucker, you’ve got work to do.”
His stomach churned. His throat dried out. No amount of swallowing was going to fix that.
What should he do? Stay or go?
Did he even have a choice?
Edwin sighed. Waited for Farrow to step back and away from the door. For his boss to stride towards the barn then glance over his shoulder and shoot Edwin a look so cold that Edwin’s balls shrivelled.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Edwin slid out of the car. There was no going back. He was a true part of the gangster’s workforce now that the soles of his shoes were on the ground—this particular ground. And he wondered if he’d ever regret the decision he’d just made.
I already do.
Fuck.
Chapter Two
Under the light of a low-watt bulb that dangled from the barn ceiling, Mr Lyons sat as though he’d positioned himself against the wall in the far corner—like he’d just happened to want to take a rest for a minute then had promptly died, his head tilted to one side, sleep dragging his cheek to sit on his shoulder. Except, because Edwin knew Gunner’s preferred method of killing someone, he was certain that sleep hadn’t done any dragging at all. Mr Lyons’ neck would have been broken. Less mess that way, Gunner always boasted.
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